Bad Romance
by MadDub
Summary: Dave Strider was a cool guy, and cool guys don't panic. Even when waking up chained and naked in their enemy's bed, they keep calm. After all, cool guys never lose their cool.


Sorry about the asterisked-out curse words. I don't really like writing a bunch of curses, but I'm sure you'll be able to imagine what words are being used. If not, know only the **** signals a cuss word.

* * *

Dave Strider was a cool guy, and cool guys did _not_ panic.

Even if they woke up in a strange room with their body screaming in pain and their wrists bound in shackles, even when a cloth was tied so tightly over their mouth it actually pulled back their cheeks and lodged itself so far into their mouth it only touched the very corners of their lips, they did not lose their cool.

It didn't matter that all of this applied to Dave, nor did it matter that he was as naked as the blessingly beautiful day he was born. Because Dave was cool, and cool guys were always calm and in control.

Even if they were currently shackled to another's bed and had a hard time seeing with the lights off, the windows blocked, and their shades still covering their eyes, as ironic as that was. Even if they could hear a deep snoring right behind them and feel the heat of another body engulfing their bare back.

Dave didn't even mind that the bed had a very strange, but familiar scent radiating from it, practically choking him as he slowly became more and more awake.

However, that does not mean his pride wasn't sorely hurt when he realized he was in bed with none other than his worst and fiercest enemy. Still, he kept his cool, and searched the room through shaded, squinted eyes, looking about for some means of escape from the chains around his wrists, his ankles so twisted in the ripped sheets it was almost as if they were tied up too.

To Strider's immense relief, a glittering silver key sat ever-so-ironically on the end table right next to his side of the bed, waiting right there as if just for him to scoot closer and use that gorgeous little utensil in order to escape the pile of bull he had somehow found himself in.

So he did just that, scooting as quietly as he could towards the edge of the bed, his body protesting every step of the way as he wiggled closer, taking it slow in order to prevent as much noise as possible.

Still, the chains were unholy loud, though it didn't seem to wake the purple crotched Bigfoot behind him up, and so he continued on until he finally found himself leaning dangerously on the edge of the mattress. Obviously, he couldn't reach the key with his hands or feet, so he bent as close as he could and attempted to pick up that eloquent, cold little key with his luscious lips.

And like the cool guy he was, he executed the action perfectly and without fail, moving to stand on his knees in order to get his face closer to his shackled hands. Honestly, it hurt like nothing else, but he didn't have much time to wallow in the increasing agony of reopened injuries he'd still had yet to see or discover, and so with a sneaky glance to assure himself that Bigfoot still slept, he spat the beautiful key into his waiting hands and proceeded to unlock the handcuffs holding him.

They snapped open with ease, releasing him and his aching wrists, and Dave was quick to remove his hands and swing his legs off the side of the bed, checking the floor for any inconveniently-placed horns.

Unfortunately, the floor was so covered in them he could barely make out the carpet, and so he was forced to carefully clear a space with his foot, being as gentle as he absolutely could in order to avoid accidentally setting one off and awakening the sleeping troll beside him.

Damn, he didn't _really_ sleep with Gamzee, did he?

He shook his head; mentally face-palming himself for wasting time on already answered questions and slid off the bed. It suddenly occurred to him that his clothes weren't anywhere on the floor, and when he glanced back up at the bed, he found his awesome, pajama-like red suit ripped into useless shreds, his shoelaces scattered about like confetti.

Well. This presented an entirely different problem.

He glanced around the room again, mind working furiously in order to come up with some sort of odd and totally ironic solution, and he found his eyes straying to the purple-spotted troll's unharmed clothing laying in a messy ball a few feet away.

Wearing the clothes of your enemy in public after you try to escape their home and the memories of the possible hate-sex you had the previous night? Definitely ironic.

Dave used his amazing skills to cross the room without touching any of the horns laying haphazardly about, shrugging on TC's possibly-used-but-possibly-unused clothing before creeping over to the bedroom door and slowly easing it open. The door didn't make so much as a peep as Strider stepped outside and closed the door softly behind him, fleeing the hive like the good-looking male protagonist always does, a large explosion blooming at his back as he walks in slow-motion towards the camera, shades on and face serious, the growing cloud of flames behind him destroying everything on-camera but the star himself, ironically enough.

Of course, Gamzee's house didn't explode, but it made Dave feel a lot cooler (and happier) imagining that it had.

Instead, he hurried away from the troll's hive and towards his own home, praying hard that no one caught sight of him in the clown's clothing.

When he finally spotted his house, he had to restrain himself from running inside and bolting all of the doors, windows, and vents shut. As tempting as it was, it was also dorky and unneeded, and so he simply strolled right up, unlocked his front door and walked on inside like nothing could ever possibly bother him. Still, he took his time locking all of the five locks on the back of his front door, and immediately made his way to his bedroom, where he snatched up some clothes and headed for the shower to wash off the stink of troll, blood, and sweat.

As soon as the door to the bathroom shut he was shucking off the stolen clothes he wore, somehow feeling cleaner naked than he did in the other's clothes. However, that changed instantly when he spotted his pale body in the mirror—and promptly froze.

There, from the very tip of his head and all the way down to his toes, were purpling bruises, bite marks, and angry scratches slashing away at his smooth flesh, striping him black, purple, and white. Bruises colored his sharp face, bites swarmed his once-untouched neck, his shoulders, collar, and stomach littered with all three injury types, the most prominent of which were the scratch marks cutting diagonally across his stomach, going from his right ribcage, just beneath the breast bone, and all the way down to his left hip bone.

He didn't say anything as he scanned his own body in stunned silence, eyes wide behind his sunglasses and body somehow twice as painful as it was mere seconds ago.

It was beginning to freak him out that he had no idea how he got into TC's bed, but what made it all the worse were those bites and scratches and bruises all over him, an extended reminder of what all might have gone on within the gap of his memory.

Dave shuddered, and quickly put himself into the shower, hoping the hot water would help to distract him. If nothing else, maybe John or Jade knew why he couldn't remember anything.

No such luck. For whatever unfathomable reason, John, Jade, and Rose weren't answering their Pesterlogs, probably because they were all a bunch of inconsiderate ***** who didn't give a **** about anyone besides themselves and not because they were potentially busy with other important aspects of their lives.

Really, it wasn't like they ever had lives in the first place, after all, if they did, would they ever have gotten into SBURB?

So, with a sigh, Dave found himself wandering away from his computer, wishing he knew where Bro was so he had someone cool to socialize with and maybe help rid all of the infectious troll germs the clown was sure to have left from his poor psyche.

The sound of the doorbell ringing woke him up.

He groggily blinked himself into a state of half-consciousness, looking around the kitchen sleepily, confused and tired. It took him a few minutes to realize he was in a kitchen and not HIS kitchen, nor his house at all, and even longer to realize that not only was he on top of a rather cold table, but he was strapped to it as well, his jeans barely clinging to his hips and his shoes and shirt mysteriously missing.

Footsteps pounded down what sounded like stairs somewhere nearby, which only further clued him in to the fact that something was terribly wrong here. The footsteps walked farther away before pausing altogether, and then a door was opening, the sound of a familiar cranky voice exclaiming, "I thought you were supposed to be coming over today? What the h—!"

The honk probably scared Dave more than anything else in that moment.

Which was ironic in its own special way.

"Sorry, brother, but I'm not feelin' it today. Hit me up later," an even more familiar voice replied, before the sounds of a door slamming shut echoed through the suddenly memorable hive.

Dave couldn't help but become extremely aware of the dark bite marks displayed on his pale torso and arms, the scratches lacing his limbs and coloring his milky skin. He was pretty sure he knew exactly what would happen if he came into contact with Bigfoot right about now, and he was certain he wouldn't like it one bit.

Unfortunately, unlike the previous night/morning, his new restraints had no keyholes, and were simply nailed into the tabletop. Meaning, he'd somehow have to cut the leather restraints if he wished to escape, and seeing how there were no usable sharp objects he could possibly hope to reach nearby, he knew that he was screwed (no pun intended). At the very least, he decided that when he died, he'd blame John and Jade for not responding to his messages and telling him why these things were happening to him, even if they had no clue themselves.

Gamzee's head appeared above him so suddenly he jumped a little, startled at the sudden sight, the troll's face as dopey as it usually looked. His face was dressed in the typical clown makeup, thick hair a mess on his head and long horns as intimidating and twisted as ever.

A silence so thick you could have cut that **** with one of Bro's crappy swords enveloped the room, catching every breath and heart beat from Dave and amplifying the sound to ridiculous volume—or so it seemed to him, anyways.

"Are you always so mother****in' quiet?" Gamzee finally asked, frowning. "No, I take that back, little bro. I already know: it's a miracle."

"It's a miracle one of us isn't dead yet, you mean," Strider chimed in on impulse. "If I could move my hands, I'd be doing all sorts of sword-play-karate on your ***. You wouldn't even see it coming. One second, there's Dave, and the next, BAM! Your freakishly clownish head would fall off, and Dave would be gone. Disappeared. Incognito."

"Please, mother****er, you could barely touch me. If you haven't noticed, you're a bit of a ****in' munchkin."

Dave was about to argue back with something incredibly witty and possibly sexually suggestive, but before he could, Gamzee pressed so close he almost touched the Knight strapped to the table, their breath mixing in the air between them and turning the atmosphere hotter and much less comfortable for the human. "****ing miracles," he murmured, the overwhelming scent of that gross slime stuff washing over Dave, nearly making him choke. Tears blurred his eyes as he gagged, and he didn't even have the chance to close his mouth before Gamzee slammed down on top of him, lips locking onto his and hands curling around his forearms, long nails cutting into the already abused flesh too easily.

The Knight winced, and attempted to turn his head away, but the troll caught his head in his hands, forcing Strider to stay still as the clown practically tongue-raped his mouth.

"Mmmph!" Dave protested, squirming about in a vain attempt to get away.

Gamzee smirked into the forced kiss, biting down on the human's lower lip playfully, despite the fact that his sharp teeth actually split his lip right open. "I ****in' hate you, brother." He freed Strider's mouth, allowing him to breathe again, but took up residence in the Knight's neck, nipping and licking at the skin. "I hate you so much it must be a mother****ing miracle."

Could you even call hating another a miracle? That seemed a bit off in Dave's opinion, but another sharp bite distracted him from his thoughts, pulling a sharp gasp out of him. He could feel warm streams of blood spilling down his neck and chin, little bursts of pain puncturing his upper body every second or so. Gamzee's claws were scraping against his arms as he slowly dragged his hands down towards his torso, cutting into his flesh and producing more bloody patches and trickles to appear.

Dave wondered if it was ironic that he wasn't yelling at the troll to stop. He sure as **** didn't encourage the purple-spotted druggie clown, but he didn't cry out either, and simply lay there, tense and reluctant.

"No point in actin' like you don't up and like it, Dogg," Bigfoot muttered against his collarbone, creepily long tongue darting out to taste him, "We're already ****ing kismesises."

"Wh-what?" Stuttering. Dave mentally face-palmed. Striders never stuttered, and he promised himself right then and there that no matter what else the purple-spotted clownish Bigfoot threw at him, he would not stutter again. It was simply not acceptable.

Gamzee grinned, yellow fangs on open display as he looked up at Dave, golden eyes gleaming. "We're already all ****ing in kismesissitude, bro."

"No we're not," the Knight of Time argued, "I rejected you, remember? Or has all that slime gone to your head and given you memory problems?"

"What do you think happens when two enemies mother****in' pail? They become each other's kismesis. If you don't believe me, let me show you. I'll bet your body remembers exactly what's happened the past two nights," Gamzee suggested with a wolfish grin, and then everything blurred, before eventually going black.

"I'm not your Kismesis," Dave insisted the next morning, shivering. Laying naked on a metal table for over nine hours makes one surprisingly cool as the time progressed.

Gamzee honked, no longer truly listening to him.

"Why can't I remember how I got to your house anyway? I can't remember ever reaching your house either night, or having freaky sex or whatever we did while I was there and still wide awake."

"Easy. I put a small bit of sober slime into all of the food and drinks in your chill box."

"Hmm." Strider went to turn onto his side, but he was still strapped down, Gamzee tangled around him in a sweaty pile of limbs and bony flesh, keeping him flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. At least he still had his shades on. "I'm not your Kismesis."

"The **** you are, brother. I'll up add prove it as many times as I ****in' need to."

"Don't even think about it, you horny clown."

"Um, I think it's too late for that," and suddenly the stupid troll was all over him again, and all Dave could do was lay back and groan. Somehow he knew he'd be there for a long while, and no matter what Pennywise said, he was _not_ happy about this arrangement.

Which was ironic really, since the whole point of Kismesissitude was to hate each other, and Dave just happened to hate Gamzee to the point of no return. It was disturbingly ironic, indeed.


End file.
